


A Woman's Place

by sunkelles



Category: The Handmaid's Tale (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Contemporary American Politics, Fix-It, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Many characters make brief appearances that aren't worth tagging, Serena gets a second chance and she doesn't squander it, Time Travel Fix-It, marital rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-12
Updated: 2019-03-12
Packaged: 2019-11-07 22:24:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17969183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunkelles/pseuds/sunkelles
Summary: After allowing June to leave with baby Nicole, Serena wakes up in her old bed and old pajamas. She still has all of her fingers.She realizes that she has a chance to change the future, and she takes it.





	A Woman's Place

**Author's Note:**

> i know that i've mentioned this in both the tags and the warnings, but i wanted to add ONE MORE WARNING! this fic opens with a marital rape. this is not canon atypical, but i never want people to be caught off guard. if you are still interested in reading the fic but would prefer to skip this, you will just miss atmosphere work and character details. and then, there are some allusions to it throughout the text of the fic but it's nothing graphic. you can skip to after the first _______________________________________________

Serena falls down at the kitchen table feeling as cold and distant as the room does. The harsh lines and open floor plan were supposed to show a minimalism only possible with wealth, but to Serena it's always felt empty. She really let Offred run off with Nicole, didn’t she? She knows that she made the right decision, but it still tears at her insides. She had a chance for a baby and she threw it away. She feels terrible even though she knows that she made the right decision. She cannot raise a baby girl in this country. 

Nicole had no future here in Gilead. She wouldn’t have any room to be a person. Serena remembers the rip-roaring fights she had with her father during her teen years. Fred would have destroyed Nicole for being a normal teenager. She wouldn’t get to read the _bible_ , let alone teen magazines or frivolous romance novels. She’d never be able to fall in love lest she be drowned in a swimming pool.

At fifteen years old like Eden (maybe even younger, if her Menarche came earlier) she’d be married to an up-and-coming Guardian or Commander at least a decade older than her who wouldn’t even view her as a person. Then she’d either carry his children or sit on with a handmaid between her legs, hoping that other woman could finally provide her with the child she would have been raised to believe is the most important thing on earth.

Rita peaks her head back into the kitchen.

“Ma’am, are you alright?”

“Rita,” Serena says, “can you please fix me a cup of tea?”

“Of course, ma’am,” Rita says, “what kind?”

“Hard, if you have it,” she mutters. Rita sends her a small smile.

“I’ll make you an _iced_ tea, then you can pretend it’s a Mike’s.” Serena nods. Pretending. That’s all she does, nowadays. Pretending that Nicole was her baby. Pretending that Fred still cared for her, pretending that Eden deserved to die for falling in love and daring to interpret the Bible herself. Pretending that she was better off in Gilead and didn’t want to take that damn offer to fly away to Hawaii.

She fusses at the bandages covering her finger stub. She misses taking vacations to tropical places, bathing in the sun in her one piece swimsuit which used to be modest but now would be scandalous. She misses intelligent conversation, and writing, and reading. Most of all, Serena misses being respected.

Rita sets the glass of iced tea down in front of her and Serena takes a long drink. It doesn’t taste a thing like Mike’s Hard Iced Tea, or Riesling, or straight up vodka, but she pretends that it’s something that will get her drunk enough to forget the shit she’s wading in right now.

Fred slams his hand down on the table in front of her, shaking her iced tea so badly she’s afraid it will fall and spill, maybe even fall to the ground and break. It doesn’t, though. Serena picks it up with her good hand and she refuses to flinch and meets his eyes and drinks. He will not cow her.

“Where are Offred and Nicole?” Fred demands.

“I don’t know." Offred and Nicole are halfway to Canada by now, but she doesn't know where specifically. What matters is that they’re going to be _free._

“You let her leave, didn’t you?” Fred hisses.

“I have no idea what you mean,” Serena says evenly.

“Yes you fucking do,” Fred says, leaning on the table, “you let them leave. I _know_ you did.” Serena doesn’t say anything, just stares him down. _What do you think, Fred?_ She asks with her eyes. Rita stands there uncomfortably, looking in concern between the two of them.

“Sir-”

“Leave, Rita,” he growls. Rita sends her a concerned look, but then bows her head and leaves the room. Fred grabs her by the arm and jerks her out of her seat.

“You’re a traitor,” he growls, pulling her by the arm.

“Don’t you think you’re being a bit dramatic, Fred? I’ve committed no treason.” She hopes to defuse him a little. This has the opposite effect.

“Reading? Defying me?” he digs his fingernails into her arm, “wives obey their husbands.” He’s right though, at least according to Gilead. Obeying your husband is written into the fabric of the law.

“Not when they’re fucking crazy,” Serena says, trying to break free of his hold. Fred grabs her instead, forcing her into a bridal carry. She flails and she screeches as he holds her tightly, carrying her all the way from the kitchen to the stairs. She elbows him in the face, but he drops her onto the cold hard floor, different parts of her body hitting the hard parts of different steps.

It’s an inconsistent and unexpected pain. She tries to brace her fall with her hands and lands on her stub. Pain courses through it and her arms hurt and her tailbone hit at a terrible angle and her knees ache and oh, god, what if she refucked up her finger? That little stub might be mutilated now. At least the cut was clean, now it’s just fucked up even more. She winces as she tries to adjust her position to something a little less painful and craddles her broken finger in her good hand.

Fred looks down at her with no sympathy in his eyes. He looks like an impatient police officer waiting for her to just cuff herself already.

“Will you comply now?” he demands, looking down at her. Serena can’t find the words to agree, so she nods. He’s gentler this time, picking up her aching body with more care and attention to how he does so. She doesn’t flail in his arms and lets him carry her all the way up the stairs and into the bedroom for fear that he’ll drop her again.

“You are my wife and you will _obey_ me,” he says, throwing her into the enormous white bed. She bounces on her stomach and twists around to try to escape, but he jumps on top of her, twisting her around to her back. Her aching tailbone hits the worst part of the bed and she groans in pain. Then he grabs her wrists and holds them above her head.

“You remember a woman’s place, right?” he says, lips quirking up in a grin.

“I wrote the book on it, Fred. Of course I remember.” He laughs.

“You never learned yours, though. All women in their place, except for you.” He gathers both of her wrists into a single large hand, holding them steady despite her flailing. He runs a hand across her face.

“What a prideful bitch you are. Reading, writing. Arguing with your husband. Letting the handmaid escape with _my_ baby. When we get Offred back, she is _never_ leaving.”

Fred’s always been _obsessed_ with Offred. He has two women under his thumb bearing his name, but he chose the one he could control more. She’s smart enough to challenge him a little, but her position is precarious enough that she’s sometimes had to play the role of perfect, submissive bed-warmer. If he could force her to actually become the fawning, demure creature that she sometimes pretends to be for survival, Offred would be his perfect woman.

“You think you can break her?” she asks, laughing, “that woman’s got a spine of steel.” As long as Hannah’s still around, she couldn’t imagine Offred ever giving in. She has the god given fiery passion of motherhood. It’s something that no one can snuff out.

“She can be led,” he says, and then he smiles widely, “maybe you can be too.” She knows exactly what he’s doing now, and nausea settles (or unsettles) in her stomach. Even after all of this, he’s never raped her, and she never really expected him too. She didn’t think that he was that kind of man.

But then again, that was the first right to go when they voided laws on rape. A spouse can’t rape a spouse, right? They consented to the union, which means they consented to sex. She had agreed, at the time. She couldn’t see a situation where she wouldn’t want sex with Fred or where he’d want it when she didn’t. When a woman cried spousal rape she was just backing out of the agreement that she made- lazy, bitter women trying to get their husbands in trouble for taking their due. Fred was a gentleman when she married him. She never thought that he’d hurt her.

Now she knows that she was a blind idiot. Maybe Gilead will take her eyes next as a punishment for not seeing this coming. Serena struggles under his hold now, screeching. He will _not_ do this to her.

“I’ve humored this for too long,” he says, as if he’s humored _anything_ recently. She’s lost her right to read, any semblance of pride she ever had, any power, her finger, and now she’s lost her baby to save her. She might have nice clothes, a nice house, and a title, but a gilded cage is still a cage.

He tears off her underwear, using the elastic to send them flying across the room. It lends a terrifying sense of normalcy to the atrocity. That’s what he’s always done when they slept together. Now he’s doing it while he rapes her.

“We were partners,” Serena screeches. That’s what she said “I do” to, a lifelong partnership with the man that she loved. She didn’t sign up for servitude. She said that she’d obey, but that was a conservative formality. It was expected of her as a good, Christian girl. She never thought he’d _expect_ it of her.

They were meant to be partners and she will drill that into his brain. She doesn’t think it’ll make him stop, but god, she has to _try._ Maybe she can remind him that she’s not just his property, but the woman that he fell in love with back Before.

“We were never partners,” he says bitterly, “I was under you, but now. You’re finally under me.” He grins like a cat stalking a mouse.

“A woman’s place is underneath a man.” She shrieks as he pushes into her. It’s strange how something normally so pleasurable becomes painful and humiliating the second it’s unwanted. She wonders if this is what Offred (no- June, her name is _June)_ always felt like. It hurts. It hurts the whole time, even when he finishes and kisses her forehead like always- like this is a return to normalcy. 

“Good girl,” he murmurs, then he wraps his arms around her and settles down to sleep. She thinks that he’s going to sleep soundly, whatever conscience he might have had banished to the back of his brain where it can’t make a peep. She cries herself to sleep, his arms wrapped around her like a straightjacket.

* * *

 

 

 

Serena wakes up. Her body doesn’t ache, which is strange. She’s never had a go that rough before, but after a rough night she always woke up sore  in the past. Right now, though, her body feels perfectly normal from head to toe. Her stubby finger doesn’t even hurt. She folds her hands together and realizes that all ten fingers slot together perfectly. She still _has_ all ten fingers.

She reaches for her nightstand and finds a lamp. She flips it on immediately/ Light illuminates the room from the tacky pink lamp from her childhood bedroom. This is her old room from Before, her old _house_ from Before. Soft white walls, popcorn ceiling, and Fred's hideous framed poster of Tom Brady looking at them from across the room, ready to throw them a touchdown pass. She never realized how homesick she felt until seeing her old life splayed out before her.

Fred digs his face into his pillow beside her, trying to force himself unconscious. 

“Serena,” he murmurs, “turn off the light. Go back to sleep.” She looks around the room in awe. Either she’s dreaming or she’s traveled back in time.

“What’s today?” she asks him. He opens his eyes and forces himself up in the bed. He must understand that she’s not going to turn the light off and go back to sleep until he acknowledges her.

“It’s Thursday,” he says, “or Friday.” He sits up and glances over to the clock.

“Friday,” he says decisively. Well. That’s not helpful. This could be just about any Friday before he earned the money to buy their luxurious mansion about six months Pre-Gilead. That’s a span of ten years of marriage that they had together in this house that she could have landed in.

“I mean the date,” Serena says.

“June 13th?” Fred say.

“Year?” Then he says a time-keeping system that she hasn’t heard used since Before. This year was four years before the Gilead take over. So that makes it seven years ago. Four years Pre-Gilead, almost a year before she was shot and lost her ability to bear children.

“Holy shit." She's in America. Gilead hasn't happened yet. 

“Serena, you know God frowns upon those who curse. Thou shalt not take the lord’s name in vain.”

“I’ll curse all I goddamn fucking like,” Serena says. She can’t get her tongue cut out for cursing here. The most she might have to endure is Fred’s glare, and honestly, she’s not planning on dealing with that any longer either.

She doesn’t have to be his wife anymore, doesn’t have to go back to Gilead where she can’t read or plan or speak her mind. She doesn’t have to go back to beatings and sharing her husband and _getting her finger cut off_ . Gilead doesn’t exist yet. Serena still has _time._

“You wanted to make a less sinful world,” Fred says, his eyes a little wide, “you were trying to curse less.”

“Well now I’m fucking not,” she says, delighted. She feels like a child who just discovered cursing. Fucking shitty goddamn fuckity fuckity fuck.  He frowns.

“What has gotten _into_ you?” he asks cautiously.

“I had a nightmare,” she settles on.

“A nightmare?” he asks. She nods. Gilead was a nightmare. It’s not exactly a lie. So. She tells him about Gilead, framing it as a nightmare and not as a reality she’s lived. She wants to see how he reacts, Pre-Gilead. See if he looks guilty or regretful or knowing. Something, at least.

“That doesn’t sound entirely unreasonable. You’re the one that said there was a moral imperative to bearing children,” Fred says, “we can’t get women to do their duty if there isn’t some force involved.” He pauses for a moment to find the right words, though he has never once found the right words.

“A gentle coercion is needed. Maybe not as extreme as your nightmare, but-" He's placating her. She _knows_ he's placating her. The Sons of Jacob must have already laid out some sort of framework for how they want Gilead to truly run behind their wives’ backs, “-but there needs to be… greater encouragement for reproduction. Women aren’t having enough children. We need to fix that.”

“With force,” Serena spits. The utopia she envisioned never came to pass. She wanted happy housewives, doted on by loving husbands. She wanted babies born into stable homes with happy, heterosexual parents. She wanted the best parts of the 1950s, but she got the nuclear warfare and the dirty underbelly of the forced nuclear family and the women shoved back into the home after carrying the country’s economy on their backs. Instead of poodle skirts and _I Love Lucy_ style antics Serena got the Red Scare and the Red Center.

She still remembers the feel of him pounding into June as she sat in Serena’s lap, remembers the feel of him pounding into _her,_ nails digging into her wrists like talons.

“A woman must know her place,” he says gently, “that’s what you’ve always said.” _A woman’s place,_ his voice echoes in the back of her brain, _is underneath a man._ Serena feels a cold sense of dread creeping up her spine as nausea settles in her stomach.

“I was wrong,” Serena says. She pushes herself out of bed and starts rushing around the house, trying to pack a bag so that she can run to a hotel room and then get her affairs in order later. He starts panicking immediately.

"Where are you going?” “What are you doing?” “Can’t we work something out?” But Serena refuses to even talk to him. Maybe _this_ Fred isn’t the one who ruined her life yet, but he has the capacity to become that Fred, and she doesn’t think that he’d try not to. Fred is Fred is Fred and he was always marching towards that terrible end. 

“I’m leaving, Fred, and I’m not coming back,” she tells him on her way out the door, suitcase and overnight back in hand, purse draped over her shoulder. He tries to make her stay, but he doesn’t have that authority yet. Gilead hasn’t come to pass, so Serena can leave him. She doesn’t want Fred in her life anymore, no matter how much she used to love him.

He grabs her arm, nails digging into her arm like talons. Serena breaks away, slams the door in his face, and does not look back.

 

Serena divorces her husband and takes back her pride, her name, and her Joy. She is Serena Joy again, and she plans to never lose that again. She doesn’t know what she should do next, though. There are so many factors to consider. She wants to have a baby. She wants to escape what will become Gilead.

Serena considers packing it up and moving to Hawaii immediately. She always loved the climate there, and Hawaii was able to escape Gilead’s grasp once Gilead finally took over. Hawaii, along with Alaska and the territories, remained America. Except for Puerto Rico, of course. The American government allowed Puerto Rico to suffer through their hurricane alone. Puerto Rico was America, technically, but no one on the mainland ever cared enough for it to take care of its people. Puerto Rico voted to become its own sovereign nation and never look back. 

Serena considers running to Hawaii or Puerto Rico or Canada, but now it doesn’t feel right. It feels cowardly, running with her tail between her legs when she _knows_ what’s to come.

She wants to _prevent_ Gilead, and she’s Serena Joy. She has a best-selling book that prompted buzz from all political circles. Serena is smart and charismatic enough to get Fred Waterford to fall for her and then stew in resentment long enough to start to hate her. She is a brilliant star that shines brightly enough that she might be able to stop Gilead. At the very least, she has to try.

And then, of course, there’s still that birth rate crisis. Without an increase in the birth rate, this country and all others on earth will implode, Gilead or no Gilead. She has to find a way to increase the birth rate that doesn’t rip away women’s agency and let men throw them around like chattel. Then, she can persuade the growing tide of conservative women like her that helped found Gilead that they don’t need or want something like that.

Then she can work to help the young unemployed men who feel disenfranchised and spit on by current society. If she can target the Nicks of the world, the good or at least mediocre men who got swept up in the tide of Gilead and never knew how to stop it, then she can cut off a significant part of their base.

Then, she needs to embolden the common liberals who did nothing. The June Osbornes and the Luke Bankoles of the world need to do more to prevent this if Gilead is to be stopped. Then, she just has to come up with a plan to put all of these ideas into action. 

She moves herself into a tiny, shitty apartment. The popcorn ceiling in the building is turning yellow like movie theater popcorn. All of the carpet is red velvet cake red and that includes in the bathroom. The upstairs neighbors smoke weed every other night, and the downstairs neighbors throw loud parties every weekend. Serena thinks that her apartment is beautiful. 

 

She also hopes that her apartment is off the beaten path and a little hard to find. It isn't in a fancy neighborhood, after all. Maybe she could fly under the radar. Sadly, she doesn't. At least not the radar of the inquisitive press. The reporters find her within a few days of when the divorce paperwork go through.

 

One reporter catches her right outside of her first floor apartment. Sometimes Serena regrets taking a motel style apartment instead of paying the price increase that having an indoor lobby would have caused. The reporter is a woman with dark skin, braided black hair, and a stunning white smile. She looks as friendly as Oprah, but considering that she's standing in front of Serena's front door, holding her hostage, Serena's not so impressed by her. She's left Serena with the options of leaving or interacting with her. Serena decides that she would rather interact than try to find somewhere else to go.  

“Mrs. Waterford!" the woman asks, taking out a notepad to jot down whatever Serena says, "How are you feeling after the divorce?” Serena laughs at that.  
  
“Well, I’m not feeling much like a _Mrs.”_

“Ms. Waterford, then,” the reporter corrects.

“Ms. Joy, actually. I changed my name back in the divorce, and I’ve been feeling great.” It’s a radical act, far left of where her political inclinations normally sit, but she knows that it’s necessary. If she wants to avoid a fascist regime, she has to move further left. Divorcing her husband and taking back her name is only the first step.

“And you know, actually it’s not _Ms_. Joy either. It’s Dr. I have multiple PhDs.” She never brings up her extensive schooling with the press. It’s hard to advocate for women moving more into the home sphere when she reminds people of how educated _she_ is. But now that repopulation at any cost is no longer the goal, Serena can wave her “I’m smart” papers and titles in everyone’s faces.

 

_I’m a woman. I’m intelligent. I can destroy you in debate._

_Die mad about it._

 

The reporter removes the pencil behind her ear and puts it to the paper she has attached to her clipboard. She’s clearly taking this as quote even though Serena didn’t give her explicit permission to do so. Serena is glad to have that quoted, though. She wants this impromptu interview to blow up the internet. She’s had a change of heart. She’s throwing her meekness to the wind and she’s going to spray 2,4-D all over the Gilead weeds in her new American garden.

“Dr Joy, that doesn’t sound very much like the Serena that wrote _A Woman’s Place_ ,” the reporter points out. She’s smiling, bright white teeth contrasting against her dark black skin. Serena can’t tell if she’s smug or if she’s actually glad for Serena and her change of heart.

“It doesn’t, but I must admit, I don’t feel much like the Serena that wrote _A Woman’s Place_ anymore.” She feels nails on her arms like talons, and shakes away the memory. 

_That_ Serena had been blindly optimistic, believing that she could give up some of her power in exchange for her own children and a more fruitful and pious world. But it turns out that when you give up freedom, you don’t get it back, and people aren’t prone to treating you as their equal anymore.

“I will have a new book out about my thoughts soon,” Serena says, “you can print all of that, by the way.” The woman smiles.

“Oh don’t worry, Dr. Joy, I was already planning to.”

 

Serena goes home that day and orders a vial of sperm online after doing extensive research on possible donors and finding the most viable and desirable option.  She’s going to have a baby of her own and she’s going to do it by herself. First comes divorce, then comes insemination, then comes a baby in a baby carriage. It’s not her preference, but Serena wants a baby and she wants it now. She also wants to advocate for non-traditional motherhood and for options that promote it, and she can’t do that without setting a proper example.

She decides that she wants to finish up her book and start the publishing process before she sets up her insemination appointments, though. Serena thinks if she’s going to be working with June Osborne, she might need some alcohol to get through it.

 

First, she starts on her newest book on her new stance. She works up a rough draft over a period of a few weeks. Then, she goes recruiting. Above all, Serena needs allies, and it just so happens that June Osborn works at a publishing company that can propel Serena’s new book into the spotlight.

 

Serena tracks June down at her firm and corners her at her cubicle right as the day is ending. The fluorescent light gives the office an eerie, clinical glow, but June's cubical is almost homey. It's coated in drawings that Hannah has done, along with pictures of June's favorite people. There's no fewer than six pictures of Hannah and four of both Luke and Moira. There's a photo of Moira with a white woman about her same age that Serena would assume must be a girlfriend. Then, there's an older white woman that shows up in a photo of June and Hannah. She thinks that might be June's mom. Other than those two, the subjects are all people that Serena knows. That makes this even more strange. 

She puts on her friendliest face and tries to pretend that she doesn't know such intimate details of this woman's life. 

“June Osborne,” she says, plastering on her warmest smile, “I’ve been looking for you.”

“You’ve been looking for me?”

“I need an in with a publishing company,” Serena says, “so I thought that I’d come to you, June. You’re the best editor in the business.”

“I proofread textbooks for a living, it doesn’t exactly make me a celebrity. How the fuck do you know me?” June asks.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you." June presses her lips together thoughtfully and studies Serena's face for a moment. Then, recognition dawns on her. 

“Aren’t you Serena Waterford?” June’s lip curls in disgust as she says her name. This doesn’t surprise her.

“Serena Joy, actually. I changed back to my maiden name after the divorce.”

“Serena Joy then,” June says, like it doesn’t make much difference, “you still wrote all that horseshit about _a woman’s place_.” June spits the name of her book, which she supposes she deserves. That book helped Gilead rise to power. She paved the road to that hell with her own good intentions.

“You’re that crazy fucking conservative woman that’s set us back fifteen years.” In another timeline, Serena didn’t even just set women back fifteen years. She sent them into a whole new era of hideous. She doesn’t think that there was ever actually a time or place where all women had fewer rights than all women in Gilead.

“I’m not a crazy conservative woman anymore,” Serena says, “I’m a single divorcée with multiple Ph. Ds and I’m planning on artificially inseminating myself with a baby out of wedlock. I’m not the alt-right’s golden girl any more.”

“Really,” June says, thoroughly unconvinced.

“Read the book,” Serena says, “Please, just give it a chance.” She places the manuscript in June’s hands, hoping the woman won’t drop it in anger on the floor.

“Why should I give _you_ a chance!” she growls. She doesn’t, however, drop the pages of Serena’s draft.

“Please,” Serena says, “I just want to fix some mistakes. Read the book, then you can pass judgement. I left my phone number on the cover.” June walks off, but she’s holding the manuscript in her right hand. Serena thinks that’s a good sign.

 

Serena gets a call three days later from an unknown number in their area code. She picks up, hoping desperately that it’s June. It is.

“Okay,” June’s voice says, “so. Maybe you’re legit about this. Maybe you _don’t_ want a dystopia anymore” Seeing how she's lived through one, no, she doesn't. 

“I don’t. I promise that I don’t.” She’s seen old testament justice, pillars of salt and stonings, sparing no rod. She doesn’t want it. She doesn’t think that God does either. He’ll be gracious unto them, lift his countenance upon them. He doesn’t want her to lose a finger for daring to read.

God loves his children. She has to believe that.

“I think we should talk.” That somehow leads to June and Serena meeting up at the a dive bar. It's the sort of bar that has low lighting not for mood purposes but because the owners don't want to pay the electric bill. The walls are coated in pictures of scandalously clad women that men in Gilead would have paid top dollar for, and there's a faint smell of beer and rot in the air. The atmosphere is shitty as hell, but it still leads to June telling her which parts of the book she think need revisions and which parts just need a few more rounds of proof-reading. She’s taken her red pen to every page and has many, _many_ suggestions for how to fix the perceived problems, but Serena thinks that’s a great sign. It certainly can’t be a bad one.

“Do you think you can get your bosses to publish it?” Serena asks hesitantly.

“Maybe once we get it fixed up,” June says, “it’d be good publicity. _Serena Waterford recants old ways, publishes new fucking scandalous material_. Being the publishing company that put that chaos into the world could be good for our image. The public’s gonna eat it up, on both sides of the aisle.” To the right, Serena will be a traitor, a vicious bitch that shows just how fickle women really are. Even the best of them don’t know their place and have to be forced into it. To the left, she’s a convert, proof that even the worst of women can be swayed.

She doesn’t know which idea she hates more. Serena takes a swig of shitty boxed Riseling. Then another. And another.

“Jeez, Serena,” June says, “you have to slow down. I know that Hemingway said you should write drunk, but we’re editing.” June grins a little.

“You’re supposed to do that sober.”

“Actually,” Serena says, finishing the last of her Riesling, “that’s a misattribution. Hemingway almost certainly never said that.” Serena looks sadly at the bottom of her empty glass and slams it down on the table. The bartender gets the message and brings her another glass of Riesling.

“Well then,” June says, “what are you getting drunk for?”

“My sanity,” Serena says. She might need June, but the woman makes her crazy. Every tilt of her head and minute facial expression reminds Serena of Gilead. The woman was never allowed to be this expressive, this much _herself_ as a Handmaid, but she still had the same face and mannerisms. This June isn’t that different from that Offred.

“I can drink to that,” she says. Then she clangs her glass of Merlott against Serena’s Riesling. She gulps it down.

“To the shitty state of the shitty union,” June says. Serena nods and then takes a gulp of her own.

“The country really _is_ shit, isn’t it?” Serena says. June nods and the look that she sends Serena is pointed. It’s thanks to you that look says. Serena thinks she probably deserves it. They drink more and more wine, ranting about every shitty thing that’s happening. Now that Serena has seen where the country is marching towards she can see the horror in all the newest legislation.

They drink and they talk shit and they drink and and they talk soon enough Serena’s slurring and her inhibitions got lost somewhere in that last glass of Riesling.

“Feel like I’ve known you forever,” June slurs with a voice too loud and excited. Serena starts giggling. That is _so_ funny that June said that.

“Can I tell you a secret, June?” Serena whispers. The world is spinning and shitty and kind of fun

“Shoot,” June says, taking another gulp of her third Merlott.

“You kinda already have,” she says, giggling. She doesn’t really know why she says it. There’s no reason to. Telling June about how she knows her won’t ingratiate her with the woman. It won’t help her get her book published. It will just make June think she’s crazy, or hate her, or both. It probably will break any chances of June helping her get her book published.

But the world is fuzzy and everything is funny and- June would get it, right? But then again, June wouldn’t. This June was never Offred.

“Whaddya mean?” June asks cautiously. Trying to think is like wading through Jell-O. Serena knows that she should think of some sort of cover, but the truth comes tumbling down like the walls of Jericho.

“We’ve known each other for a loooonnnggg time.”

Serena mumbles out the whole story of Gilead, June growing increasingly disgusted and pissed off at every word out of her mouth. She gets through it, but June looks like she might break her own empty wine glass right over Serena’s head.

“You sound like a goddamn lunatic, you know that?” June asks, eyes wide.

“Doesn’t mean it’s not true,” Serena says.

"Course it’s not true,” June says, “you’re just fucking crazy. You stopped drinking the alt-right kool-aid so you turned a different kinda crazy. Turntables or some shit.” Serena knows that’s not right, but she’s too drunk to know how to correct it.

“Look,” Serena says, trying to gesture but ending up ramming her arm into the bar, “I can- I can tell you so much. So much about yourself.”

“Uh huh,” June says.

“Hannah had colic,” Serena says, “she prolly just got over it.” June looks shocked for a moment, but then forces her features back to normal.

“Lotsa babies are colicky,” June says, “just guessed right.”

“Both your grandmas died of breast cancer,” Serena interrupts, “your mom’s dad died of old age and your dad’s dad died of a heart attack.”

“How do you know that?” June asks, eyes widening.

“Family health history kinda comes up when you’re carrying someone's baby,” Serena slurs.

“What the fuck?” June demands.

So Serena slurs through a story about handmaids, and wives, and marthas. She tells her about aunts and econowives, about the guardians and the commanders. She tells her about the wall and the corpses left there to rot or be picked apart by the birds.

The gender traitors. Jezebels. The colonies.  

She tells her about the ceremony and baby Nicole and all that shit that went down with her finger. She tells June about her own escape from Gilead with Nicole.

“Why would I wanna know this?” June asks, eyes wide.

“You wouldn’t,” Serena says. She didn’t do this because she thought June would want to know.

“Then why the fuck did you tell me?”

“Always kinda hated you,” Serena says, “but always kind of liked you too. Guess I gave you incentive to keep America great.” That was Trump’s slogan, wasn’t it? Right when Gilead was just a tiny bud, the tiniest sparkle in anyone’s eye. They came for the trans rights, and the gay rights, and the reproductive rights. They came for the people of all colors, but especially the immigrants.

They built that wall along the Mexican border. It was ironic when the same people chanting to build it were prevented from escaping Gilead because of it. Before, Serena had thought they were cowardly for not embracing the world that they helped create, but now she understands. Buyers remorse is a real condition, especially in regards to shitty governments.

“An incentive? You just made me suffer with you.” Maybe that’s true. She’s suffering and she wants June to suffer with her, partially because she wants June to suffer but partially just so she’s not alone. She’s always kind of liked the other woman’s company. Hell’s a less lonely with a little company.

“Hell’s empty,” Serena says, “all the devils are here. And they’re coming for us. You wanna let them have us?”

“Not really,” June says. She looks at her last sip and a half of wine. Then she raises it to her mouth and gulps it down.  June looks disappointedly at the bottom of her glass.

“Wine’s all gone,” she says sadly.

“Want more? Could be on me,” Serena offers. Her bank account isn’t bottomless, but she knows the bottom is deep enough she can manage to treat. June shakes her head.

“No,” she says, “I need- I need to clear my head.” She raises her hand like a student in a first grade classroom and asks for a water. When the bartender brings it over, she sips down half of it through her bendy straw before she looks comfortable enough to open up her mouth.

“So. They make me a sex slave?” She shoves the straw back into her mouth and takes a slurp.

“A baby-making slave,” Serena says, “but 'sentially, yes.” She doesn’t tell June that by the end of it, Fred had clearly decided that she would become a sex slave. She doesn’t think it would help much. June looks exhausted as she stands up. She staggers a little as she walks, clearly tipsy, but she’s making her way across the floor like a trooper.

“Where are you going?” Serena asks.

“I need more wine,” June says.

“I thought you said you were done?”

“Changed my mind,” June says. It takes a minute or two, but June comes back with a whole bottle of Merlott. She spills a little, but she pours them both glasses. Serena’s not a fan of Merlott, but she takes a swig anyway. It’s harder than Riesling, and maybe the harsher taste will be good for her. It reminds her of the urgency of the situation.

“What the actual fuck,” June says, “I just- I can’t believe this! I’m drunk off my ass with Serena fucking Waterford and- and if I don’t change things we’ll be living in nineteen eighty five.”

“Nineteen Eighty Four,” Serena corrects.

“Same difference,” June says, giggling nervously, “either way, big brother’s coming into my bedroom.” June looks like she’s going to be ill.

“He doesn’t have to,” Serena says.

“Whaddya mean?” June slurs.

“We can stop this. Together.” June’s eyes widen.

“You think so?” June asks. Serena doesn’t know, but she’s sure as hell going to try.

“Yeah,” Serena promises, “we can do this.” June takes in the idea for a moment, and then a determined look settles on her face. That’s the Offred that Serena knows. The one that went toe to toe with Serena and Fred through every abuse they put her through. That’s the woman that she needs to be to stop Gilead from coming.

“No one is taking my baby,” June says, “or Moira, or me.” She wraps her hand around the stem of her wine glass to hold it steady.

“I won’t let that happen,” June says, “all those fucking alt-right scumbags can suck my clit.”

 

 

 

June starts working on editing Serena's book and getting her published. Serena inseminates herself. Somehow, she integrates herself into June and her family's lives. Serena doesn’t have many friends, so she’ll need someone to watch her new baby when she’s out speaking against the very principles she used to pioneer. She'll also need to cover for June when she and Luke need help. 

They come up with a babysitting schedule. Luke hates her, which she gets. Moira hates her, which she gets even more. June still hates her too, but June is willing to work with her for all of their own good. They both know exactly the way that women who keep working and can’t “provide” for their children are treated here in the society that’s building up to Gilead. They’re treated like shit. Serena won’t have that for any of them, even if none of them really want her around. So. She babysits Hannah, and sometimes June or Luke or Moira babysits Nicole. 

Hannah is quite fond of her "baby sister". Serena finds it ironic, even though Nicole isn't the same baby who  _was_ her baby sister, in another timeline. She just shares a name with her. This time, Serena doesn't even _have_ to share her with June. They choose to. It's weird, but they make it work. Solidarity in defeating Gilead brings about strange bedfellows. It brings her together with June, and Luke, and Moira, and she thinks that it might bring about solidarity with other people. Solidarity brings victory. 

It makes sense. Her baby's name is "Nicole Joy" after all. Joy of course, means Joy, but Nicole means something nice as well. Nicole means “victory of the people” so her baby’s name means the victory and joy of the people. Babies like hers and mothers like her are going to stop Gilead from coming. She’s certain of it. This will be a victory of the people with uteruses.

 

 

She tracks down Nick next. He's living in a shitty motel style apartment on the opposite side of town. She knocks on his door. He doesn’t answer. So she knocks harder. Louder. Longer. He eventually comes to answer. He doesn’t look thrilled to see her.

“Serena Waterford?”

“Joy, actually.” His eyes narrow.

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m looking for Nick Blaine. Are you him?” He leans against the door frame.

“Who’s asking?”

“I'm asking. Have you heard of The Sons of Jacob?” Serena asks. Nick stiffens against his door frame.

“It’s highly illegal, likely a far-right terrorist cell. Those involved could get in terrible trouble with the law.”

“Look, I’m just the driver,” Nick says, “I don’t ask questions.”

“You called me Serena Waterford when you saw me. You know that I used to be affiliated with them, don’t you?” Nick bites his lip. She takes that as a yes.

“Why did you leave?” he asks.

“I didn’t ask nearly enough questions myself.” His turns his head away from her and she can see him turning into his apartment. He’s going to slam the door on her and then she’ll never get him on her side. She grabs him by the shoulder and turns him around to face her.

She looks him directly in his black eyes.

“What do they want for the world, Nick?” she demands.

“I don’t know,” he says, but his eyes dart away from hers.

“You don’t ask questions, but you know it’s not pretty, don’t you?” He squirms in her grasp, trying to escape back into his apartment. She keeps griping his shoulders.

“Please, they are going to destroy people’s lives. Not just women’s lives, but everyone’s lives. Rip wives away from husbands. Babies away from mothers.” She thinks about June’s friend Janine and that baby she loved so much that Naomi Putnam nearly put in the ground with her neglect.

“You can’t let them do that.” He doesn’t squirm this time, but instead looks her in the eyes.

“They kill people, you know that? What the hell am I supposed to do?” He looks away.

“I’m not a fighter.” If Nick were a fighter, he’d never have let himself get corner like this. But if Nick were a fighter, he’d also never be the type of person that she needs him to be either. The type of person she knows that he can be.

“We need someone on the inside, just for information. Do you think you can do that?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Serena takes her hands off his shoulders and sends him a cold glare.

“You’re a good man, Nick, but you’re a coward.” He turns his head and glances into his apartment.

“You don’t know me,” he tells her. Oh how wrong he is. She thinks about telling him. Telling him about how he helped build Gilead. How he fucked a fifteen year old because he wanted to live. How he sat by, complicit, while her husband raped the woman he claimed to love.

“Maybe I don’t, but I know people like you.”

“You do?” Nick asks cautiously. Serena didn’t want to delve into this argument she’s been considering, but if she needs to, then damn it, she will use it.

“Back in Nazi Germany, there were a lot of decent people that went along with the Reich. They wanted political power. All their friends were doing it. They need a job and the party was offering. There were all sorts of reasons to join the Nazi Party. Not everyone joined because they wanted to gas Jews.” Nick looks like he’s turning green. Serena feels sick just thinking about what she helped create. She knows that Nick must be feeling ill thinking about this comparison. 

“You know what they call those people now, Nick?”

“Misguided?” he asks cautiously.

“Nazis, Nick. They call them Nazis.” It’s amazing what sort of atrocities good people are willing to overlook for what they want. They can ignore a growing fascist regime for a job. They can ignore murders and torture for safety. They can ignore and even initiate rape for the chance at a baby.

“I’m not-” he looks ill “-I’m not like them. I just drive them. I just needed money.”

“So did Hitler’s driver.” Maybe it’s harsh, because Nick being complicit isn’t the same as him being an active participant in atrocities. Thinking about Fred, about the commanders that she’s worked with- the guardians- Nick is a minority. A decent man who stays that way when given the option to be a monster? Nick was a fucking unicorn in the Gilead elite.

But he _was_ still Gilead elite, and that was because he did not stand up and fight for what was right in the first place. He knew what it was, but he looked the other way for long enough that Gilead sprang up around him and then then he was stuck with it.

“Shit,” Nick says, and this time he doesn’t lean against the door frame to look casual, it’s because needs support, “I- you’re right. I can’t keep doing this.” He looks ragged, like the weight of what he’s been an accomplice to has finally settled itself on his shoulders.

“I have to quit.”

“Quit?” Serena asks, sending him a stunned look, “you’re in their upper echelons. You should be spying on them. You can provide the rest of us with valuable information to take them down.”

“You can’t ask me to do that.”

“I can’t?” Nick giggles nervously.

“They’ll kill me.” There’s a nervous cadence to his voice. Serena has never heard Nick like this. He was always so well put together. He always had to be put together to sell his image as a Guardian. Strong, stoic, in control. But this Nick hasn’t gotten there yet. This Nick is just a low level driver who’s been told he’s working for the Nazis. He also realizes that once he defies them they’ll put a bullet in his head.

“You’ll be alright,” Serena assures him, but she’s not so sure anymore. Is this Nick someone that _could_ spy on them? She doesn’t know.

“I won’t- god,” he says, and his eyes are wide, “they’ll kill me.” He sounds terrified by the prospect, but really, that shouldn’t surprise her. Nick isn’t a martyr. Eden wouldn’t lie to save her life, but Nick would in a heartbeat. He would say whatever words were necessary to buy him another few minutes. It’s a blessing and a curse.

“You’re a good liar,” Serena says, “you wouldn’t have to die.”

“They would notice. Everyone else- they’re so loyal. If there was a leak, they’d know it was me. I’d be six feet under in half an hour.”

“Alright,” Serena says, “I think you’re right. I can’t ask you to do that.” She wants to, but she knows that it won’t work. This Nick isn’t suited for spy work the same way that hers was. He wasn’t forged in the same fires. This Nick is softer, sweeter, but that might not be all bad.

“I want to help, though,” Nick says, “beyond just, you know, not working for them.”

“I want to do something.” This Nick might not be the same as hers was, but she doubts if he’s so different she can’t recognize his strengths. He’s loyal, and he’s smart. In this timeline, he’s almost sweet. Above all, he’s good at getting the things done that she needs done. She needs a lot of things done. 

“How do you feel about managing a campaign?” Serena mulls it over for a moment, and then adds, “And body guarding, and recruiting other like-minded men. It’s a comprehensive position.” She wants a Guardian again, the Nick from her old timeline, but she supposes that this version will have to do. She’s sure that he can do what she needs.

“Look, if you pay me and we stop this shit, I'll help you with whatever you need.” There’s a sincerity in his eyes that she doesn’t ever remember seeing with the old Nick. Perhaps this change wasn’t all bad after all. These versions of the people that she once knew are more naive, but they're more innocent too. Hopeful. They haven't seen how bad things can get, and hopefully, they never will. 

 

Serena’s next move was always going to be political office. The Senate race will decide whether or not Serena Joy and America can live through these trying times.

She gives her first speech for her Senate campaign to a large, screaming crowd. Most of them are screaming in opposition to her, but honestly, Serena’s just thrilled there are people here and that she has a baby that no one can take away. Even if it goes as poorly as that other ill fated speech, they cannot take her baby. They can shoot her, maybe take her ability to have more children, but they can't take Nicole. Nicole is safe at June's house. She's safe and she's free and she's reading. She'll never know Gilead if Serena has anything to say about it. 

A gunshot doesn’t come. It doesn’t come at the next speech, or the next. It doesn’t even come when she becomes an independent candidate for the the open Massachusetts senate seat. 

A different kind of bullet comes, in the form of her ex husband running attack ads against her for the opposition. She hates Fred Waterford a little more every single day. Whenever she hear his voice on television she feels his breath on her neck, feels his fingernails digging into her arms.

"My ex wife used to advocate for a woman's place," Fred's voice echoes across her screen, "but now, I think she's forgotten hers." 

She runs her own ads where she takes down each of his attacks efficiently. Fred, of course, was never the brains of their partnership. He was never the public speaker among them either. She was the shooting star and he was the light coming off of her tail. She knows that when he's finally lost the shimmer that he gained from her, he'll be out of the spotlight forever. He would have never became a Commander without her. He hated her, near the end, because he realized that everything he got he got from her. 

Now he's riding other coattails, campaigning for her republican opponent for the senate. Joseph Webster is an elderly white man with a booming voice and a bold, distasteful personality. She knew him as "Commander Webster" in another life, and he's exactly the sort of person that one would expect a future Commander of Gilead to be.

Serena stands at her little podium right beside Joseph Webster. She doesn't think about all the people that he killed in Gilead. She tries not to think about the blinding lights of the stage, or all of the cameras pointed at her, or how many people in the crowd agree with him. It gets harder when he opens his mouth to speak. 

"I don't know what you're doing here, Mrs. Waterford. Don't you have a baby to take care of?" 

"My name is Dr. Joy," Serena says, "and I _do_ have a baby. She's staying with a friend." 

"Shirking your responsibilities already? How can we trust you with a senate position when you can't be trusted with your own baby." Part of the crowd "ooos" like a middle school lunchroom when someone gets called to the principal's office. Serena smiles serenely. 

"What about you, Mr. Webster. It seems that _you've_ recently become a father again. Why didn't you give up all of your obligations to raise your new baby?" 

"My what?" 

"That intern you pressured into sex a year and a half ago gave birth recently, didn't you hear?" The "ooos" start up again. Webster's eyes widen. 

"I- I don't know what you're talking about." 

"I'll be working with her on my new initiative, intended to help struggling single mothers." Serena holds her head up high and sends the camera a winning smile. 

"I think I'll be more of a parent to your baby than you will, don't you think, Mr. Webster?" 

"I don't have a baby," he sputters, "but you- you do! Why aren't you taking care of her, if you think so highly of mothers!" His white face has turned tomato red. 

"Women do not need to give up their lives to be mothers," Serena says firmly. About half of the audience bursts into cheers. She might not have won this debate with every demographic, but she won with the mothers. That's the demographic that matters the most to her. 

“I believe that the public has an obligation towards mothers," Serena proclaims, "If we encouraged more women to become mothers without having to give up their lives, then we would have more babies. Both mothers and children would also be happier.”

“What do women have to contribute outside of children?” the man hisses. The same women who just cheered for her boo loudly at him. 

"I intend to prove all of this with my new initiative promoting active motherhood," Serena says. 

“What will your initiative consist of? Have you started it?" She’s been throwing the idea around, but she’s never actually done anything with her idea of showing successful mothers and then giving struggling mothers better government assistance.

"I have found a few of the women that I want to work with and I have a few ideas," Serena says. Beyond that, she hasn't worked out her initiative yet. 

“Saying you are doing something is not concrete proof. You can't campaign on hypotheticals, Mrs. Waterford."

“Dr. Joy,” Serena corrects. The man rolls his eyes, and a man from the audience shouts, “Your politics are shit and so are you, bitch!” Webster laughs and nods. Serena seethes.  
  
She needs to get down to the nitty gritty of this to show successful mothers and supporting single mothers a reality. Now.

 

 

The first one that she tracks down is a microbiologist. She knocks on the door of her Boston townhouse. Dr. Emily Moore opens the door.

“Dr. Moore!” Serena says, “it’s wonderful to see you! You’re a fantastic microbiologist.”

“And you’re a fantastic bitch,” Dr. Moore tells her.

“I respect that you feel that way,” Serena says, even though she doesn’t, “but believe me, I’ve changed. Haven’t you seen the news?”

“Look,” Dr. Moore says, “you can publish new books, apologize for what you’ve done. But I still know who you are.”

“Don’t you think people can change?” Serena asks. Dr. Moore bites her lip.

“I don’t know.”

“I’d like to believe that, wouldn’t you?” Serena asks. Dr. Moore sighs.

“Fine. Give me your pitch. Whatever it is.”

“We’re forming a coalition of mothers who do great things in their fields. We need to prove that women can be mothers and that is important, but it’s not the only thing that we are capable of or good for. I’m a proud mother, but I can also be an activist and a candidate for senate. You can be a mother and a renowned microbiologist.” Dr. Moore’s look sours.

“We don’t have to prove ourselves to these shitheads,” Dr. Moore says.

“Yes,” Serena says, “but we have to prove ourselves to people who are on the fence. A lot of people believe that fertility should be a public resource.”

“Yeah. You.”

“I know that I perpetuated the idea-”

“You _created it!”_ Dr. Moore hisses, “there is no recorded use of that phrase until that last paper you published before you decided on this political one eighty!" 

“You want to keep working, Dr. Moore? You want to keep your wife? You need to help me.” It’s not easy to convince Dr. Moore to work with her, or that it’s pertinent, but she does. She gets Dr. Moore to sign on.

 

Next, she tries the renowned neonatologist Dr. Jada Hodgson. She gets the woman to meet for coffee at a local shop and gives her elevator speech.

“My children are all adopted,” Dr. Hodgson says, "are you sure that I qualify for your initiative, Dr. Joy?" 

“I don’t think that makes you any less of a mother,” Serena says.

“Alright,” Dr. Hodgson says, “if you think this can help fight off this crazy-ass culture, I’m on board.” Serena nods.

“I think that it will, Dr. Hodgson.”

“Go ahead and call me Jada." Serena smiles. 

"And call me Serena." 

 

Serena picks up a few more renowned women in various fields. Chemistry. Literary studies. Musical performance. And, in the case of Webster's former intern, political science. She finds herself a gaggle of influential Ph. D. holders and Webster's former intern who holds two masters degrees. The reporters, of course, latch onto that education level correlation quickly. 

The reporter that she spoke to more than a year ago after divorcing Fred shoves a microphone in her face on her way home from an event. 

“But what about the mothers who don't have graduate degrees,” the reporter asks, “who don’t make waves in their field. What about the mothers living in poverty?”

“That is the next aspect of my plan,” Serena says, “I have plans to provide single mothers with the means that they need to raise their children and have more if they so choose.  I will be using my own money to fund the experiment with a group of five women and then, if it works, pitch it to the national government as a senator.”

“That’s an ambitious plan,” the reporter says.

“It is. That’s why I’m sure it will work.” The reporter smiles as she gets her story.

 

Serena talks to June. And then through June, Moira. Moira wants to turn it into a documentary. Serena thinks that’s the best idea that she’s ever heard.

She finds a group of single mothers who are willing to go along with the experiment, and the she remembers June’s friend Janine. She tracks her down. She knocks on the door of her collapsing house. Then, Janine opens the door. 

The woman has a baby on her hip and a five year old boy running around the house when she answered the door, but she’s still excited to invite Serena and Moira in.

“So why exactly are you offering this to me?” Janine asks, “it seems too good to be true.”

“We want to give a face and voice to mothers. How will we fix the fertility crisis if women are too afraid of having children in poverty?”

“You really just want to help?” Janine asks incredulously.

“We do,” Serena says.

“Then why do you want to film it?” Janine asks cautiously.

“Janine,” Moira says, “we’d like to help you, film the process, and turn it into a documentary to support the legislation that Dr. Joy is proposing. Would this be alright with you?”

“You’ll give me money to help me with my son? So that he can have a better life?” Janine says.

“Yes,” Serena says, nodding her head, “we want to provide Caleb and Charlotte with the best we can give then.” Janine smiles widely.

“Then you can film me taking a shit for all I care.”

 

Serena needs one more mother for her experiment, and she decides on who she wants soon after meeting with Janine- another former handmaid who had her life destroyed. Maybe she’s repenting. Maybe it’s just because this woman is on her brain and she’s able to find where she lives.

But she knocks on the door of the worst apartment she's ever seen and the handmaid hand bomber answers her.

“Lillie Fuller,” Serena says.

"Serena Waterford." Serena sighs, and she goes into her spiel. She explains her change of heart, and more importantly, gives the woman a rundown of the help she wants to provide. Ms. Fuller does not seem convinced.

"I really don't think you'll want me. After you run that drug test I know you'll do, you won't let me into this program." Serena remembers looking through Lillie Fuller's records. She was a junkie before Gilead happened. She was actually reported as being a loyal handmaid before the incident where they refused to stone Janine and Gilead had taken her tongue. Then, Lillie Fuller became a suicide bomber. But that's a different story. One that won't ever be repeated. 

“It doesn't matter," Serena assures her. Here, Lillie Fuller is a single mother with a drug problem who needs help getting back onto her feet. Serena's willing to provide her with that. 

“You really want to help me and my kid?”

“Look,” Serena says, “we will pay for your rehab and help you and your son in anyway that we can." 

“And why would you want to do that?”

“Mothers are the backbone of our society. If we expect them to have children to support our society, the least we can do is support _them.”_ Lillie Fuller crosses her arms and smiles a little.

“About time people started thinking that way.”

 

The experiment goes well. It goes better than well, actually. Serena helps get all of the mothers in the program on their feet. She improves their quality of life. She and Moira make a great documentary which really sells the project not only to the public, but to Moira herself. They call it _Singles in Your Area._ Moira's fiance Odette came up with the name, and Serena's even able to get her involved in a new extension to the program to work with impoverished women who are expecting babies. 

After they complete the documentary and the program, Janine even decides to get pregnant _again_ because she has the resources she needs to support another child now. All Serena ever wanted was to get herself a baby and solve the fertility crisis, and now she has the first and she feels like she's helping with the second. If only she'd realized sooner that the way to about that was by giving women more choices, not less. 

But here she is now, the woman that decided to change her mind and advocate for women's rights, that helped bring successful single mothers to the forefront and that create a program to help struggling single mothers to succeed. She's changed so much from the first time that she lived this day. It's a year Pre-Gilead now, and at this time in the old timeline, Serena was giving the last of her speeches promoting the ideals of the Sons of Jacob to the upper class women who would eventually become the wives of Gilead. Now she's giving a speech running for senate as a liberal independent, promoting reproductive rights and supporting the sorts of women that she used to deride. 

She delivers her last speech before the senate election before an excited crowd composed mostly of women and other genders of parents. 

“I always believed that reproduction is a public responsibility,” Serena says, “but I don’t think that’s quite the case anymore. I believe that helping mothers, providing them with the incentives they need to carry children and the resources they need to provide for them is a public responsibility.” The crowd cheers. She knows that the reporters filming her will cut this bit for their soundbite on the news tonight. 

“We cannot force motherhood on unwilling women,” Serena says, “and we cannot force women out of the workplace. They have too much to contribute. _I_ have too much to contribute.” Serena wants to be a mother, desperately, but she doesn't _just_ want that. The women in the audience don't either. These women scream. They shout, and this time, it’s in joy. 

"A woman's place is on the senate floor," Serena say, twisting her own terrible words from years ago, twisting Fred's words right before he forced himself on her. His talons don't dig into her any longer. Now, this is a declaration of power. It's a declaration of truth. 

Her place  _is_ on the senate floor. The people elect her.

 

When Serena gets to the senate, she suggests they implement her policy at a nationwide level. Eventually, the suggested policy passes through both houses of congress. Some of the resentment bubbling up in the country dissipates. Things aren’t perfect, but they get better.

Then, one day, Serena is sitting at her kitchen table, eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with her preschool daughter. Serena is watching the news diligently on the kitchen TV to make sure that nothing out of the ordinary happens. Today was the day that Gilead rose Before, after all. It's good to be cautious. But a new flag does not fly over America today day. The Sons of Jacob do not invade. All the ways that Gilead rose Before do not come to pass today. The day happens just like any other. It’s not perfect, but perfect is something that America never was and never will be. 

America remains America and does not become Gilead. That's perfect enough for Serena. 

“Mommy?” Nicole asks, “are you alright?” Serena smiles at her and wipes away her tears.

“It’s alright, Nicole. Mommy’s just happy.” Nicole nods, and takes a bite out of her PB and J. It's so normal that Serena could cry. The victory of the people is quiet that day, but it is certain. Today Serena Joy is a senator and a mother, and a woman's place is wherever she decides she wants to be. 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you all for bearing with me! this is the first fic that i've finished in months, so i'm pretty pleased that i was able to get it ready to post. i'm not entirely pleased with it, but i also can't decide what i would want to change to fix it. i might revisit it sometime in the future and make some adjustments. 
> 
> thank you all! i hope that you enjoyed it. please feel free to let me know if there's anything that you feel needed to be warned for that wasn't.


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